Lamenting The Muse

I bleed her visions vivid and verbose.
Wrought words weep from wounds
Staunched solely by
Tightly tied tourniquets of text and tone.

I, by her infrequent indulgences do illuminate;
Exigent examinations express enthusiasm,
Elicit empathy,
Or, on occasion,
Invoke ire.

I, rabble-rousing raconteur,
Revisit rural rumors with relish,
A fanciful fetish fraught with folly;
Lines laced with laudable
Alliteration alleviate her need . . .

I, at times, pen posturing poetry
Or pedantic prose
Adapting ardor to odor,
Rending ruminations on the remnants of a rose,
Roaring at restrictive rubric . . .

Yet I am not amused
By my muse’s manic manipulations:
Mellifluous manuscripts martyring meaning—

I would fain bleed free from her.